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“Aren’t we—”
I backhand her. She falls to the floor and lies there, her hand on her mouth.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak, Female,” I say. “Get up.”
I have been gone since breakfast. It is now after midnight. I know she is hungry, but I do not care.
The female rises and stands. I say, “Go,” and motion her toward the living room.
She walks and I follow. I open the closet door in the entry and remove my long coat. I take my shotgun from the rack above the door. “We’re going to walk,” I say. “Open the door.”
She turns the knob. A gust of icy cold blows in and she shivers. She opens her mouth, but no words come out because she knows better.
She knows better than to ask for a coat or shoes.
I let her squirm for a moment, wondering if she’ll break a rule and ask. She doesn’t. I say, “Retrieve your house slippers and your coat.”
The female turns to the closet and does as told.
“Good girl,” I say. When she is dressed, I command, “Go.”
She obeys me, and I smile. I am a wonderful teacher; my students learn what others would say is impossible to teach. But this proves what I have always known: a woman’s place is to be obedient to man.
She walks through the fresh snow, her hands rubbing her arms through the thin coat she wears. She glances at me but dares not speak. Her face reddens from the cold; her lips become tinged with blue. We do not walk far, only to the empty barn less than fifty yards from the house. Not even the length of half a football field. But I acknowledge that it is cold and she is surpassing my expectations by not complaining.
I am right to keep her alive for a few more days.
I take another key and unlock the large padlock on the barn door. I push up the metal latch and the wind blows the door inward. We step in and I close it behind us, latching it from the inside. It is still cold, but not windy, and my female says, “Thank you.”
“Thank you” is the only phrase she’s allowed to say without permission.
I nod, and motion for her to walk to one of the stalls on the right. She obeys.
“Step inside,” I command.
She hesitates. The last time we were in the barn it was for punishment. She raises her hand.
I say, “You may speak.”
“What did I do to displease you?” she asks, her voice quivering from cold and fear. I prefer the fear.
“You are a woman,” I tell her. I motion toward the saddle on the wooden sawhorse. She knows what to do. I do not have to instruct her again.
I don’t like to repeat myself.
She whimpers, but bends over the sawhorse and exposes her bare ass to me.
I smile.
I take the paddle off its hook and stare at her backside.
You will behave. You will learn your lesson! I think I shout the command, scream it, but I don’t say a word.
I smack her and she cries out. It does not matter how loud she screams; no one will hear her. I hit her ass with the paddle again, the slap of wood on flesh arousing.
But I will not put my penis in this vile woman. I have not touched any of them like that. I do not know where they have been. I will take care of my needs later.
First I must punish this female.
